The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. “Round midnight, I think. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. He was a stranger.
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